


Fragile Creatures

by Rob_the_Chemist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fainting, Gen, Geralt takes care of Jaskier, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Tries His Best, Heat Stroke, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hypothermia, Jaskier is squishy and breakable, Jaskier is very understanding, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rob_the_Chemist/pseuds/Rob_the_Chemist
Summary: 5 times Geralt forgets that Jaskier is human and 1 time he doesn’t.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 430





	1. Food

**Author's Note:**

> My first 5+1 fic! Geralt tries so hard. I love him.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! =)

Geralt hasn’t been human in a very long time.

Too long for him to remember what it felt like. He had been very, very young the last time he’d considered himself _truly_ human, not that he had thought about it at that age. Sometimes, ridiculously, he longs for that youthful, carefree naivety—even though he has absolutely no recollection of the experience. The space that time _should_ take up in his memory is blank as a clean slate.

Even before the Trials, his time in Kaer Morhen was spent preparing him for what it would feel like to _not_ be human. They had been expected, young as they were, to eat less, drink less, sleep less. To stand in the cold until their fingertips were blue. To hold their breath until black spots played across their vision. They had been told that even though their bodies would be reengineered to withstand things no human ever could, involuntary reflexes were not so easily rewired. So they had trained to break their bodies of the habits that would hinder them as witchers, and with the way they were forced to live Geralt had come to feel less than human very quickly.

Now, after so many years, humanity has become somewhat of an enigma to Geralt. People seem like such strange, fragile creatures, ruled by their emotions and perilously shortsighted. They’re so _thoughtless_ —like herd animals ready to blindly follow anyone with any proclaimed authority, real or not. They’re selfish, too. And lazy. And whiny.

And _loud_. The human Geralt has had the misfortune to pick up in Posada—the one that clings to him like a leech, the one that won’t _leave him the fuck alone_ —never shuts up. If he’s not talking, he’s singing. If he’s not singing, he’s humming. No matter how intimidating Geralt tries to be, no matter how much he glares or growls or snarls, he just can’t shake the man. He can’t even make him shut his mouth for five minutes.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to understand just how fast and loose he’s playing with his life, dogging an irate witcher. Doesn’t he realise that Geralt could snap his neck with a twist of his bare hands? The witcher seems to recall humans having a rather more well-developed sense of self-preservation than Jaskier apparently does—although he could be wrong. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of experience to base the assumption off of.

Still, Geralt grudgingly admits that he has to respect Jaskier for his perseverance, at least a little. He doesn’t think he’s ever met a human with the bard’s stamina or resilience—or his sheer, pig-headed stubbornness. Even if he does complain about _fucking everything_.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines from behind him, “Can’t we stop? I’m h—”

“No,” Geralt says. They’re hunting a kikimora and he wants to finish the job before nightfall. They don’t have time for whatever trivial thing the bard is whining about now—it’s already mid-afternoon. The witcher scowls at the sun high in the sky and urges Roach a little faster with a click of his tongue and a press of his heels, leaving Jaskier nearly jogging to keep up.

“But we haven’t ea—”

“I don’t care,” Geralt growls. “If you can’t keep up, leave.”

Jaskier huffs but doesn’t say anything more, although Geralt thinks he hears the bard call him a “stubborn mutant asshole” under his breath. He smirks.

For a while they continue in silence. Geralt thinks that the lack of inane chatter is kind of strange. In all honesty it unnerves him a little—although he would never admit it out loud—and he doesn’t even want to _know_ when Jaskier’s voice had become such a constant in his life that it bothers him when it’s not there. He listens to the bard’s puffs of breath and too-fast heartbeat as he trots along behind Roach and doesn’t turn to look at him.

By the time Geralt catches the scent of the kikimora Jaskier is panting and lagging behind, which is almost as weird as his quietness. As lanky as the man is, he’s fit enough, and he’s never had trouble keeping up with them before. Even when Geralt has Roach moving at a canter, he knows that Jaskier can run beside her for a surprisingly long time before he has to slow down.

He opens his mouth to ask if something is wrong, but the words feel foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue before they even pass his lips, and so he closes it again. He shakes his head a little to clear it. He has a job to do, and anyway, Jaskier is an adult.

 _Nineteen is hardly an adult,_ a traitorous voice in his head points out.

Geralt scowls. Jaskier is an _adult_. He can take care of himself.

The witcher doesn’t look at the other man as he dismounts and tethers Roach to a tree just beyond the edge of the road. He strokes the horse’s nose. “I’ll be back,” he murmurs. “Keep that idiot out of trouble, would you?” He chuckles when she tosses her head in clear disdain.

To Jaskier, he says, “Stay with Roach. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He ignores the bard’s protest of, “What—Geralt, _wait—_ ” and tunes out Jaskier’s voice before he can hear the rest of whatever the man’s saying. It’s not his problem. He _does_ , however, listen carefully to make sure he’s not being followed as he moves through the woods. From this distance he can just hear Jaskier rummaging through his things and grumbling indistinctly to himself, and he relaxes a little.

The sounds of the bard are lost as the scent of the kikimora grows stronger. It’s not long before he can see the monster hunched over some poor scrap of what once must have been a man, shoving bloodied bits of flesh into its mouth with sickening slurping sounds. Geralt grimaces.

He unsheathes his steel sword and leaps forward, slicing off one of the kikimora’s legs before it can even turn at the sound. The beast screams and staggers to face him, swiping clumsily at him with another leg. He rolls out of the way and severs the limb with a quick, controlled swing of his sword. Blood sprays in his face and he growls, spitting and wiping it out of his eyes.

The kikimora takes advantage of his momentary distraction, knocking him back with enough force to send him crashing into a nearby tree. His head cracks against the wood and for a second the world is blurry. For some reason, as he shakes his head a little dazedly, his thoughts flit to Jaskier. The impact would have surely broken the man’s skull.

But Geralt isn’t Jaskier and his vision clears quickly—just in time for him to see the monster scream in his face before it picks him up and slams him again into the tree behind him, pinning him against it. The sword in his hand clatters to the ground.

He grunts annoyedly. The monster leans forward to bite his face off but he punches it right between the eyes, making it recoil for just long enough that he’s able to reach behind and grasp the hilt of the silver sword on his back.

He catches the new scent in the air right as the kikimora does. It drops Geralt and turns toward the newcomer, the smell of human flesh infinitely more tempting than the smell of mutant meat. Geralt swears and struggles a little to regain his footing as the beast lumbers toward Jaskier, unsteady with its missing limbs.

“Fuck,” the witcher growls, running to kill the kikimora before it can make the bard its next meal. Jaskier is just standing there dumbly, trembling a little and face pale, and Geralt feels a surge of anger. He _told_ him to _stay put_ , dammit. Is that so fucking hard?

Geralt jumps forward just as the monster is about to grab Jaskier, slicing off the other backmost leg and sending it crashing to the ground with a screech. The witcher shifts his momentum upward and jumps up onto the kikimora’s body, using the leverage to take a few bounding steps forward so that he can shove his sword down through the top of the kikimora’s head. It shrieks and collapses fully, writhing a little before succumbing to its injures with a choked gurgle. It twitches as Geralt yanks its sword back out of its skull.

For a second he just stands there, breathing hard. He tries and fails to rein in his fury at Jaskier’s complete lack of regard for his own safety and Geralt’s. Finally, he jerks around to face him with a glare so murderous that even the unperturbable bard flinches back.

“You fucking idiot,” Geralt growls, jumping down from the dead kikimora’s body. He strides forward and grabs the collar of Jaskier’s tunic with both hands. “I told you to stay with Roach. What the fuck were you thinking?” He shakes the other man slightly, not failing to notice his pallor and the fine tremors that wrack his lean frame. Serves him right.

“I just—wanted to see it,” Jaskier says breathlessly, eyes wide as a frightened doe. “I heard it and I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“No, you _didn’t_ think,” Geralt snaps. “You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten _me_ killed.”

Jaskier pales impossibly further. Satisfied that he’s gotten his point across, Geralt releases the other man’s tunic and returns to sever the kikimora’s head as proof of his kill before stalking away. After a minute he hears the bard’s unsteady gait trailing behind him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says weakly as they near the tree line, “I need—”

“Shut up.”

“Geralt, _please,_ ” the other man gasps.

The witcher drops the kikimora head and whips around to tell Jaskier to stuff it _or else_ , but the angry words die on his lips as he sees the bard’s eyes roll back into his head. Alarm flashes through him.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he curses, quickly moving forward to catch Jaskier before he can hit the ground. He lowers him carefully, listening for his heartbeat and searching his slack face.

His pulse is too fast, his skin damp with sweat and so pale it’s almost translucent. Geralt quickly scans his eyes over the bard, looking for injuries. Maybe the kikimora had hurt him after all. There are none, though. No blood, no bruising. No fever—the witcher presses his hand to Jaskier’s cheek and finds it cool and clammy. He scowls with frustration.

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter. “Jaskier,” Geralt says. He taps the man’s cheek gently. “Wake up.”

The bard groans and blinks up at him and then grimaces in what looks like pain. He brings a trembling hand up to press against his forehead.

“Are you hurt?” the witcher asks. “Ill?”

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes again. “No,” he mutters. “I just need food.”

Geralt blinks. He says blankly, “You…need food.”

The younger man squints at him again and huffs a laugh. “Unlike you, witcher dear, my weak human body doesn’t function well if I go days without sustenance.” He pulls himself into a sitting position but sways precariously. He takes a few deep breaths.

Geralt realises with a frown that they haven’t eaten since lunch the day before yesterday. Or was it breakfast? He hadn’t really been paying attention. Hunger is somewhat of a rarity for him—one good meal every two or three days is usually sufficient. Now that he thinks about it he does remember noticing that Jaskier eats far more often than he does, taking any food he’s offered when they stay at inns and snacking on nuts and strips of dried meat on the path in addition to whatever Geralt catches and cooks over the fire—if that even happens.

“You don’t have any in your bag?” Geralt asks, steadying the bard with a hand on his shoulder. Jaskier shakes his head ruefully.

“No time to buy more in the last town,” he says. “I looked through Roach’s saddlebags but there was a disappointing absence of provisions. By the way, your wardrobe is woefully lacking in colour.”

Geralt glances down at the black tunic beneath his leather armour and rolls his eyes.

“Hm.” The witcher considers the situation. There’s a town about two hours down the road with an inn where Jaskier can get a hearty meal and a marketplace where he can stock up on snacks for the path. Geralt glances down at the Kikimora head. The man he had made the contract with is about four hours back the way they’d come in a little cottar’s village across from the forest—he’d offered a fair amount of coin for the head of the beast that was stealing his cattle. He could send Jaskier toward the town while he takes the head back to the cottar, but the residual pallor of the bard’s face makes him think that he won’t get that far on his own. Geralt doesn’t even know if Jaskier will make it on Roach without passing out again unless he eats _something_ now.

“Wait here,” he tells the bard as he stands from where he’s been crouched at his side, his mind made up. Jaskier hums in agreeance and scoots back to lean against a tree, closing his eyes again.

Geralt makes his way quickly through the woods, hunting for some sort of berries or plant that he can give Jaskier to hold him until they get to the town. He’ll take Jaskier to the inn and make sure he eats, and then he’ll take the head back to the cottar in the morning. The bard will have plenty of time to buy his provisions while he’s gone.

As Geralt gathers handfuls of wild raspberries and slips them into the fold of cloth sewn into the side of his pants, he wonders again at human fragility. It’s become obvious by now that he’s not going to get rid of Jaskier. And despite his reputation, Geralt is not a cruel man. Just because he’d rather not be forced to endure Jaskier’s presence, it doesn’t mean that he wants to watch the bard suffer. He realises with a scowl that if he’s not going to rid of Jaskier he’s going to have to pay more attention to his excessively finicky human needs.

He’s going to have to start cooking every night they’re on the path. He’ll need to make sure that Jaskier has enough coin for all necessary meals at the inns. He’ll have to check that the bard is well-stocked with food for the road. The prospect seems incredibly tedious, and he lets out an annoyed sigh as he makes his way back to where Jaskier is still sitting with his eyes closed.

“Here,” he says curtly, feeling irritated. He feels a little guilty when the bard startles and takes the berries Geralt thrusts at him with a fervent, “Thank you.”

“There’s an inn a short ways down the road,” he tells Jaskier as the man shoves berries in his mouth almost animalistically. “You’ll stay there while I take the kikimora head back to the village. Eat. Buy food. I won’t be gone long.”

“That’s kind of you,” Jaskier says, and he seems surprised. Geralt bristles a little but just hums in reply. The bard’s surprised expression morphs into something contrite. “I _am_ sorry—about the kikimora. Wasn’t thinking straight. I get a little reckless when the hunger goes to my head. I hadn’t meant to put you in danger, dear witcher, truly.”

Geralt wants to roll his eyes again at the endearment but restrains himself. His guilt returns. Jaskier had tried to tell him, after all—he imagines that if he had listened and they had stopped sooner to find the bard something to eat he never would have gotten dazed enough to wander into the fray of Geralt’s hunt.

“It won’t happen again,” the witcher says, crossing his arms, and he’s confused when Jaskier’s mouth twists regretfully.

“No, of course not,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t…I’ll be more careful next time.”

Ah. Geralt supposes it would be easy to take his words to mean that he blames the bard.

“There won’t be a next time,” he says firmly. He’s relieved to see that the colour is starting to return to Jaskier’s cheeks. “I’m not going to let you go so long without food again.”

Jaskier looks at him in confusion for a short moment before a grin spreads slowly across his face. Geralt frowns, not liking the expression the other man has adopted. Something pleased—almost smug.

“Why, Geralt—I didn’t know you cared!” he says, grinning widely. “I’m flattered, dear heart, absolutely _flattered_ that you would worry for me.”

“I wasn’t—forget it.” Geralt scowls and kicks the kikimora head back past the tree line to retrieve later, wishing that he had enjoyed his peace and quiet while he had the chance. “Fuck.”

The berries seem to have rejuvenated Jaskier’s spirit as well as his body, and he leaps to his feet with his usual flourish only to stumble when the movement turns out to be too much, too fast. Geralt reaches out to steady him with another scowl.

“Damn it Jaskier,” Geralt growls. “ _Be careful_.” Jaskier positively beams at him.

No, Geralt thinks as they set off again, this time with Jaskier in the saddle behind him, this will not happen again. Humans need food. Humans need more food than witchers. Jaskier needs more food than Geralt. He’ll remember. He has to.

This will not happen again.


	2. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's probably some dubious medical advice in here--I don't actually know that much about what you're supposed to do for heat stroke. Don't sue me. I swear I'm not a doctor.
> 
> Also, sorry that there's not actually that much plot in this chapter. But who needs plot when you got whump, amiright? lmao
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It’s hot as all fuck.

Geralt squints against the blinding glare of the sun overhead and wipes a hand over his brow to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. He’d removed his armour and gloves hours ago, leaving him only in pants and one of his lightweight black tunics, the sleeves hiked up to his elbows. He’s still boiling. The tunic is damp all over with sweat and he’d take the damned thing off too if he thought it would do any good—but at this point he thinks he would just end up wanting to remove his skin with the shirt gone.

It’s not that he can’t handle the sweltering heat. In the Keep they’d been forced to endure all manner of horrible weather. But they’re in the far south of the Continent in the dead of summer and Kaer Morhen had never gotten quite _this_ hot, and Geralt is not too proud to admit that he’s uncomfortable. Roach huffs beneath him as if in agreeance with the sentiment, her coat shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

“All right, bard?” he calls, glancing behind him. Jaskier has been quiet for a while, but it’s not as unsettling as it usually is. It feels like the heat has sapped all of their energy, and the other man had long since declared that opening his mouth was too much work and had instead poured all his focus into putting one foot in front of the other.

Geralt isn’t surprised when the only response he gets from Jaskier is a noncommittal grunt. The bard’s face is nearly as red as the thick doublet he had discarded earlier and his eyes are glued to the road in front of him. The witcher frowns a little, but turns forward again, confident that by now Jaskier knows that he can tell Geralt if there’s a serious issue.

He swallows thickly against the saliva congealed in the back of his throat. They had run out of water early this morning, much to everyone’s dismay. Jaskier had complained dramatically, of course—but then he’s always being dramatic. There’s a town about half a day’s ride away that Geralt is confident they can reach before nightfall, even considering the fact that he’d slowed Roach to an easy amble to keep from pushing her too hard, and there they can drink as much water as they can hold and maybe even have a cool bath. Still, just like the heat, the thirst is uncomfortable. But Geralt is much better prepared to handle that part. He can go a good five days at least without any water at all if he’s forced to—although in this heat, he highly doubts he would make it that long.

So it’s a good thing they’re so close to the next city, he muses, running his tongue along the sticky roof of his mouth. He hopes he’ll find a contract there, but really it doesn’t matter right now as long as they can—

He’s jolted out of his musing by a dull thud from behind him, and he knows even before he pulls Roach around what he’s going to find there.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, swinging down from the saddle and going to kneel next to Jaskier, who is now a crumpled heap on the dusty road.

He straightens the bard so that he’s lying flat on his back, quickly running through a list in his head of all the snacks he’s stashed in his saddlebags, convinced for a moment that Jaskier hasn’t eaten enough once again. But no—in the nearly half a decade since that incident the man hasn’t gone more than a day without food in the witcher’s presence. Geralt has made sure of it. And besides, he’d just watched Jaskier eat some dried berries a couple hours earlier. He frowns and looks the bard over.

Geralt can see that the deep flush of Jaskier’s face extends down his neck and disappears beneath his tunic. He’s panting, and when the witcher puts his face closer to the younger man’s he wrinkles his nose at the rancidness of his breath. That’s odd—on the rare occasion that Geralt has had to get this close in the past Jaskier has always smelled like the spearmint leaves he chews intermittently throughout the day.

The bard’s eyes move rapidly beneath his closed lids, but he doesn’t stir when Geralt calls his name, or even when he gives him a gentle shake. The witcher puts his hand against Jaskier’s cheek to give him a little pat and realises two things at once. Firstly: he is very, very hot to the touch. And secondly: he isn’t sweating.

Alarms ring in Geralt’s head. It is far too warm for Jaskier to not be sweating at all, especially when Geralt is nearly dripping. He feels the fabric of the bard’s tunic under his arms and finds it very slightly damp, as though Jaskier had been sweating and then stopped a long enough time ago that his shirt has nearly dried. Geralt would assume that this is a fever of some sort, an illness, but the other man had shown no signs of sickness at all up until he’d suddenly collapsed. At least, no signs that the witcher had noticed. He admittedly doesn’t have an extensive knowledge of the delicate inner workings of the human body—but he had been under the impression that human bodies function in basically the same ways that his body does, just…touchier.

He sits back on his heels frustratedly, the hot sun beating down on his back in a way that makes him feel irritable.

Reaching out, he smacks Jaskier’s cheek lightly—but still sharp enough to sting a little, because this is fucking ridiculous—to no avail. He growls and grapples with the idea of just picking the unconscious man up and hauling him into the saddle with him so that they can keep moving, running his sticky tongue over his dry lips.

He doesn’t want to strain Roach by making her carry both of them, though, not when she’s already so hot and hasn’t had any water since— _wait—_

Geralt reaches forward and then pauses, glancing at his dusty hand. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to put his fingers in the bard’s mouth, not when he hasn’t been wearing his gloves and has been getting dirt and sweat and horsehair all over his hands. If Jaskier were conscious he’d surely have an absolute _fit_. Geralt imagines that the bard might actually bite him. He’s also not too keen on the idea just because it’s fucking gross.

But Jaskier _isn’t_ conscious, and Geralt is going to have to suck it up because he has a sneaking suspicion that he knows what the problem is. So he wipes his hand on his pants—probably uselessly—and squeezes Jaskier’s cheeks to open his mouth a little wider, and then runs his index finger over the other man’s gums and tongue and the roof of his mouth.

As Geralt had expected, it’s bone-dry. He grimaces and wipes his finger on his pants again anyway. He leans forward to sling the bard over his shoulder before standing.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to die of dehydration, you fool?” he growls, straining his ears for any nearby sound of running water. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to leave Jaskier unconscious and dried-out until they get to the next town. Luckily, the witcher can just hear the soft rush of a creek nestled in the forest standing a few hundred yards to the left of the road they’re following.

Geralt only notices the tightness in his chest when it loosens a little with the realization of what’s wrong with the bard. It’s a bit strange—he’s not used to caring about people, and he’s _definitely_ not used to caring about people enough to stick his hand in their mouths. But Jaskier has been an exception to almost every rule from the minute he’d plastered himself to Geralt’s side in Posada, and the witcher notes with slight chagrin that he’s not surprised this time is no different.

As he grabs Roach’s reins and starts to make his way toward the woods, he feels a little foolish, despite the insult he’d just thrown at Jaskier. He can already feel the sweat dripping down his chest and back where Jaskier’s body rests against his, and he’s fucking _thirsty_. If Geralt is this thirsty already it stands to reason that the bard had been, maybe quite literally, dying of it. The witcher had been right in his assumption that Jaskier’s body is just a weaker, less efficient version of his. He just hadn’t engaged in the practical application of his own logic. He shakes his head, annoyed with himself.

Jaskier thumps lightly against Geralt’s back with every step the witcher takes, and it’s not long before the man is forced back into consciousness from the movement.

“Ger’lt,” he croaks, hitting weakly against Geralt’s body with an open palm, “’m upsi’down.”

Geralt stiffens when Jaskier comes dangerously close to smacking his ass. “Stop that,” he growls, and Jaskier does. He shifts the bard and little and grasps the back of one of his thighs more securely. “We’re going to find water. You can’t walk.”

“Th’rsty,” the bard mumbles as if the mention of water has just reminded him, turning his face so his cheek bumps against Geralt rather than his nose. “Hot.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Geralt snaps, feeling irritated again. He shakes his head to clear the sweat from his eyes. “Next time warn me when you’re going to try to turn yourself into bard-jerky.”

Jaskier just moans a little and then goes quiet again, his breaths hot and too fast against Geralt’s skin. The witcher feels a slight pang of guilt. Yes, Jaskier should have told Geralt he wasn’t feeling well. But Geralt should have taken into consideration just how much the heat would affect Jaskier’s fragile human body. Geralt is just as much to blame for the fact that the bard is now dangerously dehydrated and probably suffering from heat exhaustion as Jaskier is.

Water. Humans need lots of water—much more than witchers do. He adds it to his mental list of annoying yet vital bits of information he needs to know about Jaskier in order to keep the stupid, stubborn bard from just randomly dropping dead.

One of the most frustrating things about Jaskier is the fact that, for all his gratuitous whinging, the man never fucking says anything when he’s in _actual danger._ Geralt had, of course, already known about the bard’s lack of self-preservation instincts—made obvious when he hadn’t heeded Geralt’s early warnings to piss off or else—but this is just sheer idiocy. At least with the food thing he’d _tried_ to say something about it. This time he’d just let himself faint in the middle of the road without any hint at all that there was something seriously wrong.

By the time they find the creek Geralt is thoroughly annoyed, and so he slings Jaskier off of his shoulder and lays him on the ground, fills his flask with water, and then dumps it over the bard’s head.

Jaskier comes to with a gasp and a splutter, looking more alert than he has since he’d stopped talking and shucked his doublet off hours ago. “Geralt, what the f—”

But then he catches sight of the creek behind them and scrambles desperately toward it on his hands and knees, all but shoving his head in the water as he takes large, greedy gulps. Geralt shakes his head and refills his flask, relishing in the feeling of the cool liquid running down his dry throat. Roach looks up and snorts at him from where she’s been drinking deeply on the other side of the bard. Geralt agrees.

“Next time,” Geralt tells Jaskier when he comes up for air, “say something about your dumb human needs _before_ you pass out. I’m getting tired of carting your unconscious ass all over the Continent.” He’s getting tired of worrying about when the bard is going to fall unconscious and not wake up again.

Jaskier grimaces and doesn’t meet Geralt’s eyes. “Didn’t want you to think I’m weak again,” the bard mumbles, no doubt remembering the food incident. Geralt is reminded abruptly of just how _young_ he is.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Geralt says. Then he plants a boot against the bard’s back and pushes him into the water.

Later, when the sun has set and the air has cooled with nightfall, Jaskier and Geralt sit by the fire in their lightest sleepclothes, contentedly silent. Geralt’s hair is still damp from when he’d joined Jaskier in the creek. Their wet clothes are laid to dry on the opposite side of the camp.

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt says as he turns the meat of a rabbit he had caught over the flame. “You’re a human.”

Jaskier stares at him, and when he doesn’t say anything more he snorts. “Well-spotted, Geralt,” he says. “I’d have never noticed.”

The witcher rolls his eyes. “Being a human means you’re weak. But being a weak human doesn’t mean you’re a weak person.”

Jaskier looks at him like he’s got two heads.

“Oh, for the love of—” For all he claims he’s a genius with words, the bard is being surprisingly slow-witted tonight. “I don’t fucking think you’re weak just because your _body_ is different from mine, Jaskier.”

For a long moment Jaskier says nothing. Just as Geralt thinks he’s going to have to explain himself again—although at this point it’s not his fault if the bard is too goddamn thick to get what he’s telling him—Jaskier bursts into a fit of laughter. Geralt scowls.

“I’m sorry I scared you, dear heart,” the bard chuckles after a minute, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ll tell you the next time I feel poorly.”

Geralt sighs, because he knows by now that protesting his care for the bard is futile and, quite frankly, a lie. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

Instead, he just grumbles, “You’d better,” and reminds himself to buy an extra flask at the market tomorrow, so that this doesn’t happen again.

Water. Humans need water. He’ll remember. If he’s been able to keep Jaskier fed up until this point, he’ll be able to keep him hydrated from this point on.

This will not happen again.


	3. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking as someone who has gone a good long time without sleeping, this was fun to write. I'm not sure Jaskier would be quite this bad off after only two days but I had to make this work within a timeline. Cheers!
> 
> P.S. Sorry I keep reuploading this chapter--I'm having some technical troubles.

The hunt isn’t going well.

What Geralt had been told was one alp had turned out to be a nest of them, and he’d only managed to kill half of the vampires before he’d had to make the hasty decision to retreat, yanking Jaskier out of the ruins before the bard could become a tasty snack.

The alps had tracked them for the entire rest of the night, forcing Geralt to zigzag and run circles to try to head them off, and by the time the sun had risen he and Jaskier had found themselves pretty well lost. Geralt has managed to find the road back to the town where he’d made the contract, but what should have been a half-day’s journey has now taken nearly a day and a half. The sun had set behind the horizon hours ago.

The witcher is going to have to return to the ruins tomorrow— _alone_ this time—to finish the alp nest off and hope that the creatures haven’t relocated by the time he gets there. He scowls. The only reason he’d let himself be convinced to bring Jaskier along on this job was the fact there was supposed to be only _one_ alp. Blasted, good-for-nothing townspeople. Inobservance is one of the more annoying traits he’s forced to deal with when working with humans. He’d have never let the bard come if he’d known there were so many of the vampires, and by himself he would have been long finished with this job by now.

As it is, he’s not keen on the idea of having Jaskier return to town on his own, not when night has fallen and the alps are already familiar with his scent. They’re less than three hours’ walk from the inn at this point—not a terribly long journey, but still plenty of time for a wayward bard to lose his blood to a pack of angry vampires. It will be very early morning by the time they get back into the city, and Geralt is content with sending Jaskier off once they’re within the town limits and then going back to finish what he started with the advantage of the coming dawn.

Although at this rate it may very well be midday by the time they make it back to the city.

“I swear to Melitele, bard,” Geralt growls as he swings Roach around to face Jaskier, who has stopped suddenly for what has to be the fifth time in an hour. “If you don’t get moving I’m going to leave you to be eaten by the alps.”

Jaskier stares blankly at the witcher for a moment before shaking himself a little. He blinks rapidly and then flicks his eyes around.

“The shadows,” he says, his voice lifting at the end like it’s a question. Geralt knows, because they’ve had this conversation ten times already, that it’s not.

“For the last time,” the witcher snaps, “there’s nothing there. It’s _night_. There are shadows. Owls and foxes aren’t a danger to us.”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish, eyes sliding in and out of focus. “Uh…wolves,” he mumbles.

Geralt rolls his eyes and turns Roach forward again, pressing his heels into her flanks. “I have swords,” he says flatly.

If Geralt were less tired, he would be concerned about Jaskier’s strange behaviour. He’s never seen the bard act like this before. But they had set out before first light of dawn yesterday and haven’t had any rest since. Those alps had put up one hell of a fight, and between the surprise at the multitudes of the creatures, the effort it had taken to keep Jaskier out of harm’s way, and the gash he’d received in his right bicep from one of the vampires’ long claws, Geralt is exhausted. Not to mention the fact that he’s going to have to _go back_ tomorrow. Just because he _can_ go days without sleep doesn’t mean he has to _like it_.

And anyway, he’d checked Jaskier thoroughly for wounds once they’d found a safe enough place for the witcher to do so, and the man had suffered no injuries. He’s eaten today, drank plenty. The bard is, on all accounts, perfectly healthy.

It’s for this reason that Geralt can feel his already-thin patience snap when Jaskier stops again not ten minutes later. He halts Roach and dismounts with a snarl, almost convinced that the bard is for some reason hindering their progress _on purpose_. He advances on the other man, his glare murderous.

“You fucking—”

“Yeah, you’re going to let me get eaten,” Jaskier snaps, matching Geralt’s scowl. “I heard you the first thousand times. You’re _being an asshole_.”

Geralt blinks in surprise at the venom in the bard’s words. But then he bares his teeth in a way that usually has people cowering in fear. He’s being an asshole? _He’s_ being an _asshole? Jaskier_ is the one prolonging their misery.

The witcher steps forward and takes two fistfuls of Jaskier’s tunic, shaking him roughly. “Listen, you little shit—”

“ _Don’t touch me!_ ” Jaskier all but shrieks.

“Then fucking _move!_ ” Geralt snarls, letting go of the shirt and shoving Jaskier backward. “Walk!”

Jaskier stumbles back a few steps and then sinks to his knees, clasping his hands over his ears. “I hate you!” His voice breaks on a sob.

Geralt stares at him, seething. He doesn’t fucking have time to coddle a twenty-six-year-old man who has suddenly decided to act like a child. His threat to leave Jaskier to the alps had been an empty one, but he finds himself toying seriously with the idea now.

He exhales harshly. No matter how _fucking annoying_ Jaskier can be, Geralt doesn’t want him dead. He would never admit this out loud, but the bard is actually rather decent company, when he isn’t whining or fainting or getting into trouble.

Or bawling on the ground like a two-year-old. Geralt scowls and moves forward to grasp Jaskier’s biceps, pulling him to his feet. The bard gasps and swings a fist toward Geralt’s face.

Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand easily, and the shock of the attempted punch is enough to pull him almost completely out of his rage. Jaskier has never raised a fist to the witcher before, not in all the nearly ten years they’ve known each other.

“ _Violence doesn’t suit me_ ,” he had said when Geralt had asked him about it—because let’s face it, Geralt _is_ an asshole, on occasion—his mouth twisting a little with a bitterness that had been unfitting on the man’s normally cheery face. “ _I’m not my father_.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Geralt asks now, voice rough with the last vestiges of anger.

Jaskier stares at him vacantly again. Geralt is alarmed by the emptiness of his eyes. He gives him another shake, gentle this time. “Jaskier.”

“Let go,” the man whimpers at the movement, pupils dilating a little. “It hurts.”

“What hurts?” Geralt asks, frowning and releasing the other man. Had he missed an injury after all? Guilt is staring to war with the worry in his gut, but as he tracks his gaze down Jaskier’s body he sees no signs of blood or bruising.

Jaskier brings his hands back up to his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. “Please stop shouting.”

The witcher’s frown deepens—he’s not yelling anymore. Regardless, he lowers his tone to a near-whisper. “What hurts, Jaskier?”

“My skin,” Jaskier says, dropping his hands. “Like my nerves are—are turned up, or something.”

“Hm.” Sensitivity to sound and touch—and probably light, too, if Geralt is to glean anything from the way that Jaskier is squinting.

The bard glances fearfully around them. “The…” He stops, staring, and when Geralt looks closely, he sees Jaskier’s pupils constrict slightly before they dilate again and Jaskier is blinking rapidly, just as he had done earlier. “The shadows,” Jaskier says.

Geralt hums again. Hallucinations? Maybe very mild ones. More likely in his state of heightened sensitivity Jaskier is noticing things he doesn’t normally. The witcher suddenly becomes aware of the fact that Jaskier is trembling.

“You’re shivering,” he points out.

“Cold,” Jaskier replies, licking his lips. His eyelids flutter.

This in itself wouldn’t normally be cause for concern—it’s late spring, but there’s still a chill in the night air. But in combination with all of Jaskier’s other bizarre symptoms, the lack of internal temperature regulation doesn’t sit well with Geralt. Jaskier sways on his feet, and Geralt reaches out to steady him, trying to be as gentle as he can.

“Sit down,” he says, guiding the bard down to sit on the road before he can collapse. He then makes his way over to Roach, rummaging through his saddlebags for…something. He’s not sure what.

He really has no clue what all this could be about. He would think poison, but he hasn’t let Jaskier out of his sight since they’d started for the alp-infested ruins almost two days ago. He hasn’t eaten or drank anything that wasn’t out of their packs—and Geralt _knows_ that the food and drink they’ve brought with them is fine because he’s consumed it as well. It could be an illness, but there’s no fever and there hadn’t been any other tell-tale signs of sickness: no coughing or sneezing or nausea. And anyway, Jaskier is an absolute _nightmare_ when he’s sick. He never shuts up. The only thing he’s complained about recently is tiredness.

Geralt’s hands still on a vial of willow extract as a suspicion starts to grow in his mind. He turns toward where he’s left Jaskier and is alarmed to find him slumped over on his side, his left cheek pressed into the dirt and his lute case somehow rammed under his right arm.

“Fuck— _Jaskier,_ ” he barks, going over and dropping to his knees in front of the unconscious man. This has really got to _stop_. He reaches out to pat Jaskier’s cheek, and when that doesn’t work he goes to shake him for the third time tonight.

Geralt pauses, though, and leans forward to take a closer look at the unconscious bard, his earlier suspicion flaring up again. His face is waxy in the moonlight with an almost yellow tint, his eyes slightly sunken and ringed with purple and red. Geralt might have said he looks sick, but he’s lacking the gaunt cheeks and flush of a fevered man.

He looks _tired_.

The witcher sits back on his heels with a sigh, watching Jaskier’s eyes move under his closed lids and taking in the deep, even rise and fall of his chest. He does a quick calculation in his head and realises that neither of them have slept for nearing on forty-eight hours. It’s nothing to him—he could probably go a week or more without sleep, although in all honestly he’s never pushed that particular limit—but to Jaskier it’s obviously edging on completely intolerable. He’d never thought that something as seemingly inconsequential as a little bit of lost shuteye could change someone’s demeanour so drastically.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he accuses, glaring at the sleeping bard. “All you needed was _sleep?_ ”

If he’s being honest with himself, Geralt will admit that he’s relieved it’s not something more serious. Thinking of what might have happened had it been a poison or some unknown illness makes his chest twist in a funny way. He adds this to his ever-growing mental list of Jaskier’s requirements: food, water, and now sleep. If Jaskier doesn’t get enough sleep, he turns into a sensitive, snotty little bitch.

As much as he’d like to let the bard sleep on the road until he can act closer to his age, there’s still half a nest of alps out for their blood—quite literally—and he can’t risk it. Geralt _can_ , however, speed up their journey back to the inn and hopefully make it a little less painful. For both of them.

“Come on, bard,” he says, jerking Jaskier’s shoulder lightly. The man groans and blinks at him. “Up.”

Jaskier is half-limp as Geralt hauls him to his feet and then up into Roach’s saddle. He sits behind the bard and wraps an arm across his chest to keep him from listing off of the horse’s back, and then clicks his tongue.

Now that he has no obligation to keep himself upright and moving, not even the rough, rhythmic thud of Roach’s hooves on the dirt road can keep Jaskier awake. His head lolls against Geralt’s shoulder, arms hanging lifelessly at his sides. Geralt grits his teeth against the added deadweight on his body and wonders not for the first time why he puts up with this.

Resilient thought he is, Geralt is still tired himself, and by the time they make it back to the inn he’s grappling with the idea of just letting go of the bard and watching him fall on his face in the dirt. But he’s not _that_ cruel, so instead he barks, “Wake _up_ , Jaskier,” into the other man’s ear and smirks when Jaskier flails into consciousness.

“Get off,” he says before releasing his hold on Jaskier’s torso, giving the bard just enough time to prepare before he’s dropped unceremoniously from the saddle. “You’ll have to get to the room on your own. I’ll be back.” He’s gone before Jaskier has time to say anything, but he can’t keep himself from glancing behind him as they pass the city gates. There’s no sign of the bard, and Geralt can’t pretend not to notice the flare of worry he feels at not knowing where Jaskier has gone in his vulnerable state.

Still, the man isn’t lying face-down in a heap in front of the inn, and that’s going to have to be good enough for now. Geralt urges Roach into a gallop, eager to finish this hunt for more reasons than one.

Dispatching the rest of the alp nest is a simple task. They haven’t relocated, although it looks like they were just about to, and without Jaskier to distract him he makes quick work of the five or so vampires that were left. He strings their nails along a piece of twine—he has half a mind to demand extra coin for all the trouble the many alps have caused him—then ties the twine to one of his saddlebags and makes his way back toward the inn.

It’s early afternoon by the time he gets back and as it turns out he’s too tired to do anything but grunt and trade the string of alp claws for the previously settled payment. The man is pathetic, anyway, trembling at the sight of the witcher and apologizing profusely for the extra work, and Geralt knows he would feel guilty taking any more of his money. He nearly groans at himself. Jaskier is rubbing off on him.

Geralt is both amused and exasperated to find Jaskier fast asleep on the floor of their shared room, ten steps from the bed and with one of his shoes still half-on. He frowns when he feels a warm flare in his chest, uncertain as to what it could be. He’s never felt it before.

Although—no, that’s not true, he _has_ felt it before. He feels this warmth while he watches Lambert wrestle with Aiden, or when he hears Vesemir laugh so hard he snorts at something dumb Eskel has said. Geralt ponders this as he shucks off his armour and boots, and then removes Jaskier’s shoe the rest of the way along with his doublet and takes the lute off the man’s back to put in the corner.

It’s fondness, he thinks, this feeling. The witcher lifts Jaskier into the bed and all but collapses beside him. He should really take a bath, but he’s worn out and Jaskier is too unconscious to wash his hair anyway. He thinks his fondness for the bard feels a little strange—he’s not used to feeling fond of anything except for his family.

It doesn’t really matter anyway. Jaskier isn’t going to leave just because Geralt not only cares about him but _likes_ him, and thinks that’s weird. He’s told Geralt in no uncertain terms that he’s stuck with the bard. The important thing right now is remembering what he’s learned from this fucking hunt.

Sleep. Humans need sleep. Geralt will make sure Jaskier sleeps if he has to knock him out himself. He can’t guarantee he won’t deck the bard anyway the next time he acts like this.

Sleep.

_This_ will _most definitely not_ happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do we feel about Geralt's slow relief from emotional constipation? lmao what am I even saying
> 
> _I_ need to sleep


	4. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this update is so late--I've started a pretty intense course of study and don't have a lot of free time. I'll try to get the last two chapters out as soon as I can. Also I'm sorry if the ending feels rushed. I'm so hecking tired lmao. Hope you enjoy!

The first snow has come early.

Geralt glares out of the mouth of the cave into the sheeting blizzard. It’s only late afternoon, but it may as well be pitch black for all he can see through the weather. A gust of wind pushes a flurry of snowflakes into his face and he feels a tug on his elbow.

“C-come away from there, G-Geralt. You’ll f-freeze to…to d-death.”

Geralt turns toward Jaskier and raises an eyebrow, but complies. He gives the bard a gentle push with a hand on his chest and forces him along farther into the cave. “I don’t think I’m the one you should be worrying about,” he points out.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Even though he doesn’t speak again, Geralt hears his teeth chattering behind his closed lips. The younger man trembles beneath his hand and the witcher can feel his breaths shudder through his lungs. He resists the urge to sigh in exasperation.

It’s late October. Snowfall so early isn’t unheard of, but it’s rare and Geralt hadn’t even considered the prospect before it had been too late. He had noticed the bitter cold, of course, and the distant smell of a coming storm, but he had assumed that it would pass. Or at the very least hold off for a fortnight or so.

No such luck. Charcoal clouds had roiled overhead and the sharp, sulfurous smell of the blizzard had quickly overcome them, followed by pelting sleet and snow mere minutes later. Too far from the last town to go back and too far from the next to move forward, Geralt and Jaskier had been forced to seek shelter anywhere they could find it. They’d been extremely lucky to come across an open cave near the base of a mountain quite close by, and after Geralt had made sure there were no lurking monsters they had stumbled in to stay, soaking wet and exhausted.

Geralt removes Roach’s tack and wipes her down with an old filthy blanket before going to work on his own sopping clothes. He’s chilled to the bone and uncomfortable as all hell, but he’s faring better than Jaskier, who is much more slight than the witcher and hadn’t been dressed for poor weather of any kind—Geralt has been trying for years to force him into more practical clothing, but the bard just won’t have it. Something about aesthetic and character restrictions. Whatever that means.

Now, the fool bard is shaking too hard to take off his soaking doublet, which had been useless against the snowstorm. Geralt feels a not wholly unfamiliar surge of fondness as he steps over and pushes Jaskier’s shaking hands away from the ties and unlaces it himself, lips quirking at the man’s stuttered and indignant protests.

Jaskier’s sorry state isn’t for lack of trying on Geralt’s part—the witcher had offered a spare travelling cloak which Jaskier had inexplicably declined. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand the enigmatic inner workings of the bard’s mind. Geralt has decided that most of the time Jaskier just has no clue what’s going on, which should annoy him but, for some unfathomable reason, doesn’t.

“Bedrolls are dry,” Geralt says once he’s helped Jaskier out of his doublet and tunic. He trusts that the younger man can take care of the rest. “I’ll start a fire. You should lie down.” He knows that Jaskier is tired and he doesn’t like the deep purple rings around his eyes or the pallor of his skin. The memory of the alp hunt is as fresh in his mind as if it had happened three days ago rather than three years.

The witcher turns away and tosses one of the bedrolls behind him to Jaskier—who doesn’t catch it, if the dull thud and muffled “ _oomph_ ” is anything to go by—along with an extra fur. He wraps another fur around himself and pulls three small cuts of wood from one of the saddlebags. He’s glad that he’d at least had the foresight to pack the logs, although Jaskier had insisted he was being ridiculous. The bard is sure to be thankful for it now.

Grabbing the flint and steel from his pack and the dirty blanket he had used to wipe Roach, Geralt settles to build the fire near the spot where Jaskier is huddled in his bedroll. He cuts the driest parts of the blanket into strips with a small dagger for kindling and listens to the rustle of fabric as Jaskier trembles beneath the furs. Something tugs in his stomach. It feels like he’s overlooking something, like he should be doing more, but he doesn’t even know what it is he should be doing more of. He frowns.

Once the flames are crackling gently, he looks over at Jaskier again. The firelight casts him in a honey glow and makes the shadows under his eyes look starker. His eyes are closed, but he’s too tense for Geralt to believe that he’s fallen asleep and the witcher hesitates, that same gnawing feeling flaring in his stomach.

“Do you need any food or water?” he asks, unsure of himself—a rarity.

“N-no, thank you,” Jaskier replies. His mouth barely opens and his eyes remain closed.

“Hm.”

With nothing else to offer, Geralt tries to ignore the strange feeling in his gut and moves a little ways away, sitting down to meditate. It takes longer than it should for him to get out of his head, but soon enough his thoughts fade into the background and his consciousness is settled entirely into his physical self.

It doesn’t last. Sometime later, something pulls Geralt abruptly out of his meditation. He frowns and tilts his head, listening over the howling blizzard for whatever it is that’s distracted him—and soon realises that the disturbance is actually a _lack_ of something. It’s too quiet. He considers the noises in the cave and tries to recall what could be missing.

Rustling. There’s no more rustling sound. Geralt looks over to where Jaskier is lying next to the fire. He’s very still and has turned so that his back is to the flames, and the witcher expects to feel relieved that he’s stopped shivering but the tightness in his chest just won’t loosen. Something else is missing. Something important.

“ _Fuck_.” Geralt stands and moves to Jaskier’s side so quickly he nearly lights himself on fire. He can’t hear the younger man’s heartbeat, can’t hear his heartbeat or his breathing, and his own heart pounds raggedly in his chest as he rolls Jaskier over to look at his face. “Jaskier!”

The bard’s face is a horrifying pale-grey colour, his lips and eyelids tinged dusky blue. Geralt has seen enough fresh corpses to know that the beds of his finger and toenails will be the same colour. Jaskier’s skin is icy through his clothes and for one terrifying moment the witcher is sure that the man is dead.

Geralt feels almost dizzy with relief when he finally hears the sound of Jaskier’s breaths, shallow and too slow. He presses two fingers to fingers to the bard’s pulse point and finds a thready, sluggish heartbeat. He sits back on his heels and passes a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. Alive. Jaskier is alive.

Geralt’s heart continues to hammer against his ribcage. No, Jaskier hasn’t let death take him just yet—but he’s very obviously courting it and the witcher hasn’t the faintest idea why. He tilts the man’s face toward him and sucks in a breath as he touches Jaskier’s frigid skin. The flesh of his cheek is stiff beneath Geralt’s hand. Geralt feels a chill at the resemblance Jaskier bears to a cadaver in this moment.

It’s only when the chill doesn’t go away that the witcher realises just how cold it’s become in the cave. The sun has set and snow has blown in near the opening, and the tiny fire does little to dispel the tomb-like iciness of their shelter. Jaskier may not be shivering, but Geralt is—he’s still shirtless and the fur had fallen into a heap on the ground when the witcher had scrambled to Jaskier’s side, and now that some of his adrenaline has faded he’s trembling so violently that the bard blurs in front of him. Realisation hits him like a boulder.

“Sh-shit— _fuck_ ,” Geralt swears, stumbling over to grab the abandoned fur on cold-stiffened legs. Jaskier isn’t as muscular as Geralt and doesn’t hold as much heat—and anyway, he’s not a witcher. His body isn’t meant to withstand temperatures like this. Geralt curses himself for ignoring his earlier feeling of oversight.

As quickly as he can, Geralt tears the remains of the now dry blanket and tosses them onto the fire. He dumps his potions unceremoniously out of the wooden box he had kept them in and manages to break the hinged lid off with unfeeling hands, adding the two pieces to the blaze to hopefully sustain it for longer than an hour. At the last minute he clumsily unfolds a horse blanket and drapes it over Roach, who is laying a short distance from Jaskier’s head. She huffs reproachfully at him. Geralt imagines she’s scolding him for being so stupid and letting Jaskier freeze half to death. He agrees.

“Y-you—fuck—” he hisses at Jaskier, rechecking his breathing and pulse. _You’d better fucking not die, you bastard,_ he wants to say. He can’t get the words out through his chattering teeth, though, so he just settles on, “D- _don’t_.” He thinks Jaskier would understand.

As much as he’s loath to do it, Geralt has to uncover the bard to crawl in and share whatever body heat he’s got left. But as he moves the blankets away the witcher is dismayed to find that Jaskier hadn’t removed his pants or chemise or smallclothes and that they’re all still damp and, by extension, so is the bedroll and the innermost layer of blankets. For a minute he just stares at the unconscious man in stunned silence.

“ _Idiot_ ,” he growls, forcing himself to his feet and staggering over to retrieve the other bedroll. No wonder the bard is nearly dead of chill. He’s going to end up killing himself from his carelessness one of these days, and then Geralt will bring him back to life just to kill him all over again.

He finds himself praying to Melitele that today isn’t that day as he sets up the second bedroll on the opposite side of the fire. He doesn’t care _what_ Jaskier says about breaking character. Snow clothes. Boots. A heavy cloak. Geralt is going to buy them and Jaskier is going to take them or get his nose broken. No negotiating.

Geralt drags Jaskier’s limp form to the dry bedroll and doesn’t think about the way his stomach churns when the bard doesn’t even twitch. He forces his stiff fingers to work at the laces on Jaskier’s pants—they won’t cooperate and the witcher ends up tearing the eyelets out—and then he yanks the chemise over Jaskier’s head. His hesitation at Jaskier’s smallclothes is a split second.

Once the bard is bare and Geralt has shimmied out of his own smallclothes the witcher lies Jaskier on the bedroll and drags the blankets and the two heavy furs across his shoulders and then he lies himself down, situating them so that they’re halfway on their sides and he’s halfway lying on top of Jaskier, trying to cover as much surface area as possible and tucking the coverings in around them. He tucks Jaskier’s head under his chin so that his nose presses against the hollow at his throat, both to warm his face and to have the assurance of the man’s weak breaths against his collarbone. Then he shoves his arms beneath Jaskier’s armpits and presses a knee against his groin. There should be heat between his legs, lots of heat—it’s an area of rich blood supply. But there’s only hard, icy flesh. A shudder tears through Geralt as he tries not to think of cold, rigid, dead muscles and the way Jaskier feels more like a corpse than a living person.

What would have happened if Geralt hadn’t noticed the unnatural quiet? He would have gone to sleep, unworried, and woken to find the sun glistening on the snow outside and Jaskier a dead man beside him. The witcher tries to tamp down the flare of panic that threatens to close his throat off at the image. Of all the mistakes he’s made when it comes to Jaskier’s human frailty, he’s never truly been afraid for the bard’s life. Now—he tries to hear Jaskier’s heartbeat over the frantic cadence of his own heart and can’t, and his fear is a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. At this point there’s no telling whether or not Jaskier will live to see the morning.

Geralt’s body heat circulating beneath the blankets is starting to bring feeling back into his hands and feet, and the pricking in his toes and fingertips foreshadows a painful thawing. His body generates far more heat than a human’s and it doesn’t take much to warm him up again, especially in such close quarters. Jaskier remains waxy and still.

“I haven’t kept you alive so long just for you to die of your own foolishness,” Geralt mumbles into the bard’s hair, his chattering teeth finally still. All the energy has drained out of him and he feels as though he’ll never be able to move again. His eyes close of their own accord. “I won’t lose you this way.” _Not when I could have kept you alive for so much longer,_ he thinks.

Jaskier’s breaths stutter against Geralt’s skin, and when they stop the witcher’s come to a halt as well. He waits for Jaskier to inhale, to take another breath, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap open.

“ _No_ ,” he growls, shifting his arm out and then striking Jaskier hard between his shoulder blades. “You are going to _live_ , bard, _damn you_.”

The bard gasps and jolts against Geralt, a breathy whimper slipping from his mouth. Geralt brings his tingling hand up to Jaskier’s neck and strokes broad circles into the base of his skull with his thumb, his eyes falling shut again as he murmurs his thanks to Melitele. He’s not really one for worship, but he finds he’s helpless to stop the prayers falling from his lips now. He shifts so that Jaskier is pressed more firmly against him

Geralt doesn’t sleep. He drifts in and out of awareness, listening attentively for any change in Jaskier’s breathing or heartbeat. He has horrible, vivid waking dreams of the bard’s lifeless eyes staring vacantly out of his blue-tinged face and feels sick. Time passes: seconds, minutes, hours. The witcher doesn’t know. All of his nerves are alight with prickling pain now and his skin feels like it’s burning, as though all the blood in his body has decided to rush to the surface at once. His fear and discomfort make him feel more vulnerable than he has in a very, very long time, and he finds himself longing fiercely for one of Jaskier’s ballads—though he’d never admit it.

“Please,” he whispers into Jaskier’s hair. He doesn’t know who it is he’s pleading with. He’s not even entirely sure what it is he’s pleading _for_. “Please…”

As if he’s heard the witcher’s pleas, Jaskier jolts a little. Geralt freezes. A shiver rocks through the bard’s frame and he pulls in a shuddering gasp. Geralt uses the hand still cupped at Jaskier’s neck to gently tilt the man’s head away from his collarbone, his pulse picking up again.

“Jaskier,” he says, searching the bard’s face. It’s no longer corpse-grey but cotton-white, and the places where Jaskier’s skin had touched Geralt’s directly are almost, _almost_ pale pink again. He looks like a man who _may_ die, rather than one who is already dead. The relief that flood Geralt’s veins is so potent it makes him nauseous.

Another shudder wrack’s Jaskier’s body and he moans again, his features creasing in what looks like pain. He tries weakly to twist his head out of Geralt’s grasp. The witcher caresses his thumb behind the bard’s ear.

“Easy, Jaskier, settle,” he says lowly. “It’s just me.”

But soon Jaskier is trembling violently, shaking the entire bedroll, and tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“Huh-huh-hurt—guh…Geralt,” he whimpers, squinting at him, and the witcher doesn’t know if he’s really aware of his presence or just crying out for him because he’s in pain. Something twists uncomfortably in his chest.

“Shh,” he hushes, leaning forward to press his forehead against the bard’s. “It will pass.”

“N-n-n—” Jaskier, obviously disoriented, twists away again and tries weakly to wriggle out of the witcher’s grip. Geralt holds fast and presses a hand against the man’s lower back to keep his core flush against him. “Huh-hurts. Huh-huh-hot.”

“You’re not hot,” Geralt tells him. His skin is still cold to the touch.

Jaskier opens his mouth again but at that moment a violent tremor seizes him and locks his jaw, and Geralt winces as the bard’s teeth clamp down on his own tongue. Once the fit has passed the man sobs in agony.

Geralt closes his eyes and reminds himself that the trembling is a good thing. It means that Jaskier’s body is trying to regulate its temperature, that it hasn’t given up. Jaskier sobs again.

 _A good thing,_ Geralt chants in his head. _This is a good thing_.

He offers as much comfort as he can but otherwise forces himself to ignore Jaskier’s crying and broken begging. He strokes his hair and murmurs nonsense and doesn’t let him leave the confines of his arms, and soon the bard is too overcome with exhaustion to fight anymore. Geralt breathes a sigh of gratitude when Jaskier finally falls into a fitful sleep. He loses his own battle with consciousness not long afterward, overwhelmed with tiredness now that he’s certain the bard will live through the night.

The next time the witcher wakes, sunlight is glinting off of the snow outside of the cave and Jaskier is sleeping deeply beside him. His face is flushed and they’re both slick with sweat, and Geralt extracts himself as gently as he can from the oppressive heat of the blankets, careful not to wake the bard. The fire is now embers smouldering on the ground.

Geralt is still exhausted. As he watches Jaskier breathe freely, listens to his heart beat steady and strong, he can feel just how close he’s come to losing the bard in the bone-deep ache that resonates through his entire body. The thought makes panic flare in his chest although the danger has passed. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips along Jaskier’s cheekbone, taking comfort in the way the man turns his face into the touch. Alive. Jaskier is alive.

Boots. A cloak. Heavy clothes. _Warmth_. Geralt will make sure of it.

There is no _fucking_ way he will ever, _ever_ let this happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, Geralt is really hitting the feels this time. Methinks I see some romance in his future...

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers, lovelies.


End file.
